Wednesday, October 5, 2016

A Song of Grod: The Glass Throne...Chapter 11

GROD

This is a profoundly
stupid way to conduct an assassination, Grod thought to himself as he
gouged the Swamp Elf's eye out his skull.

Using archers?
Indoors? Especially when a dagger would
work so much better for an elimination. It wasn't just tradition,
Grod considered in the back of his mind while he absentmindedly, made
a smooth and elegant offhand draw on his gladius. Practical is
tactical and a dagger is much more tactically sound for this kind of
op.

The first Elf
screamed high as he dropped his bow and staggered backwards clutching
his hands to his ruined eye. Grod ignored him for the moment as he
gripped the cross guard of his short sword's pommel for added, if
uncomfortable leverage. He jerked his hips as he stepped into his
southpaw sword slice. His blow chopped so deeply into the second
archer's neck that his head remained attached only by a flap of skin.
That one hit the ground like a puppet whose strings had just been
cut.

If either of them
had bothered with or even been aware of uniform regulations this
might have been difficult. The Guard are supposed to wear gorgets
around the neck to prevent being murdered like this.

One was dead and the
other was now an archer with no depth perception...and he was
screaming a lot. No discipline at all there, Grod thought to himself
in disgust. Regardless didn't have time to kill him but he knew it
when he half blinded him. Hopefully the loud one didn't have friends
nearby or at least Grod hadn't seen any on his way to Bryan's
chambers. There probably wasn't any help coming for them. This
little op smelled of the hip shoot mission, there had clearly been no
real planning. Which meant they had no back up.

That left four
combatants. One potential ally being pinned down by three of them
while they were trying to chuck him out a window and one liability
who looked like he would be breathing his royal last shortly. There
was one Swamp Elf masquerading as a Guard colonel, that looked ready
to speed that project along.

Oh...him, Grod
thought to himself as he recognized “the Colonel.” The quotation
marks around “the Colonel” were now mandatory so far as Grod was
concerned. Grod's instinct was to ignore that one and rescue the man
he rather presumptuously called his friend. Although as a (nominal)
subject of the crown his duty was clear.

Alsoooo, there was
the matter of being caught on the wrong side of a palace coup, which
he most certainly would be, if his side's only available monarch was
taken suddenly dead.

There was also the
fact Grod knew Ruyined personally and while not at the top of
Grod's list, he was most definitely on it.

Grod had already
worked out these details when he was busy pointing out to the archers
that he was not actually in the service industry. He had now
targeted the Swamp Elf “Colonel” and was approaching him at a
dead run. Bryan, he hoped, could take care of himself for the few
necessary seconds Grod would have to invest in butchering El Ruyined.

El Ruyined looked
back and forth between Branadoc and Grod in fatal indecision. The
Duke's sword was poised for the death stroke. The orc couldn't reach
him time to save the young king. But the Swamp Elf wouldn't be able
to save himself either. He'd be physically over committed in
murdering Branadoc. And Grod he knew had a well earned reputation as
a fighter.

From a mission
oriented standpoint there was nothing that resembled a choice. His
only reason for existence at that moment was to kill Branadoc. It
wasn't just a duty for his new queenking. It wasn't just a
favor for his super hot half-sister. It was a legup for his entire people. King Perseverance
would seriously owe them for this. And Perseverance always paid her
debts, she was legendary for it. If
he got killed doing the job that would be icing on the cake. King
Persey was born a daughter of the regiments, ultimately it would mean
a lot to her.

El
Ruyined Prince of the Methaphelian People, made the only decision
he could, the one that he had been born and bred for.

“GET
THE ORC, YOU STUPID
ASSHOLES!” Ruyined screamed
frantically at
his remaining men while he trippingly
backpedaled away from
Kevo-Grod. Clumsily drawing
his own falchion in the process.

Swamp
Elf fatalism was almost instantly apparent in Ruyined's serfs.
Things had been going well for them for quite awhile. That meant
something horrible had to be on it's way. Life in the Grand Delta
Swamp does not for some reason breed optimism. It breeds nearly
everything else, Malaria.
Dengu-dengu
flu, Yellow
fever,
Red fever, Black fever,
monstrously disgusting Corpse
Flies, rabid Swamp Dingos, the
revoltingly inbred Swamp Elves themselves and
the only happy thing in those
swamps in first place, the joyfully ravenous
Gators that continuously
feasted on all of them.

By
the time Banner Sergeant Kevo-Grod had pulled his tomahawk out belt.
They had begun singing their death songs.

El
Ruyined had gotten far enough away from Branadoc that the insane
young king might live long enough to bleed out. He had taken up a
cross guard stance with this swords.

Swamp
Elves favored that school but Grod found it a ridiculous affectation.
The real elves...the High Elves had been said to favor it those
techniques. So the Swamp Elves tried to ape them.

What
Grod found almost as ridiculous was the idea of throwing your
tomahawk in the middle of a fight. It seemed to him like a brilliant
method of disarming yourself.

Grod
leaned hard over and disarmed himself. His tomahawk whirled
viciously across the room on a diagonal slant and buried itself in
tendon cluster of the now clinically depressed would be assassin
pinning down Bryan's right arm. That Swamp Elf collapsed before he
could even scream because he had no choice, his leg couldn't work
physically work anymore.

Grod's
own hipshoot mission was doing better than theirs. That particular
Swamp Elf lost his grip on Duke Bryan's right arm. Bryan did him the
limited favor of wrenching Grod's tomahawk out of his knee.

Grod's
immediate ally was now armed.

Now
the orc Banner Sergeant could focus his full attention on the Swamp
Elf Colonel.

Grod
snapped his sword over to his strong hand and pulled his dagger out
of his boot. He closed in hard on El Ruyined.

The
Swamp Elf Prince for his part tried to get his subordinates back on
mission, “FORGET THAT ONE! ATTACK THE ORC NOW OR HAVE YOU ALL
FLOGGED TO DEATH!!!”

But
it was obvious that his reinforcements had problems of their own.
One was down with a destroyed knee. And the other two hadn't had
weapons to hand when they were trying to persuade Duke Bryan to take
a walk off the balcony.

Bryan
had already gotten in a nasty chop to the shoulder of the one that
had been holding his other arm. Again the gorget thing. He was
frantically wrestling with Bryan while his partner was backpedaling
to get enough space to draw his long sword.

Grod
advanced on El Ruyined. His dagger held in an “ice pick” in the
orc's armored gauntlet in front of him ready to parry the first of
Ruyined's strokes. His short sword was pointed to the rear in a full
trailing guard. It wasn't that effective of a guard position but it
played hell with Ruyined's mind. It said, I can not only kill you
whenever I like, I can afford to use dumb flashy shit to win cool
points doing it.

Ruyined
had the sense to keep jogging backwards. It wasn't cowardice...it
wasn't just cowardice. The orcs always fought at close range.
It was why they fought with short swords. A long sword has a
minimum engagement range of about one and a half arm lengths. When
an orc with a short sword got past that minimum range and into bad
breath territory, half of a long swordsman’s techniques were
rendered useless because he simply couldn't swing his sword
effectively and thrusting just wasn't going to happen at all. Short
sword on the other hand can do all kinds of nasty damage at that
range.

If
Ruyined could keep the range long enough for...well long
enough. His men on the balcony could finish off Duke Bryan. And
then do their real job of protecting his life. After that he could
have them tortured to death at his leisure for not obeying him
instantly. It didn't look like it would take them long.

The
one that had his arm around Bryan's neck had finally given up trying
to choke him out due to the fact that Bryan being of sound body and
paranoid mind had not neglected to wear his gorget. That Swamp Elf
finally jumped backwards to get enough space to draw his own long
sword.

Duke
Bryan stopped trying to chop at the second Swamp Elf and skipped
sideways like an electrified crab to plant a solid thumping side kick
on the chest of the third.

The
third Swamp Elf on the balcony reared backwards to take as much
energy out of the Duke's kick that he could. And then was suddenly
and forcefully reminded that he was The Third Swamp Elf on the
Balcony. The beautiful and ornately carved marble guard rail
had been installed hundreds of years ago when the average typical
height was about half a foot shorter, (it was why they had picked
that balcony in the first place) and it hit him mid thigh.

The
Third Swamp Elf on the Balcony toppled gracelessly over the edge of
the guard rail. His sword which he had finally managed to draw went
flying uselessly out of his hand as he frantically grasped for the
edge of the rail.

And
caught it! He was holding it only by his fingers tips but he had it.
His immediate elation was dimmed upon seeing the form of Duke Bryan
with tomahawk in hand focusing in on his fingers.

El
Ruyined fumed as heard The Third Swamp Elf on the Balcony become the
Swamp Elf No Longer on the Balcony in Any Significant Way Unless You
Count Dismembered Fingertips. Thanks to his incompetent
subordinates, this fight was getting close to one on one and those
are always terrible odds for any Swamp Elf.

El
Ruyined now had to fight an armed and able combatant for the first
time in his life and he didn't really care for that at all. But with
nothing to lose and certainty that Grod wouldn't accept his surrender
he attacked.

El
Ruyined had heard a story that the greatest swordsman in the world
doens't fear the second greatest, he fears the worst because that one
is the least predicatble. With that nugget in mind he spammed Grod.
He was a completely unpredictable whirl wind of sword strokes.
Striking high, slashing low. Making frantic thrusts with the dukes
straight edged long sword and nearly useless ones with his own curved
one. In that moment El Ruyined felt utterly alive and in the moment.
He knew the orc couldn't predicate when his swords would come from
because he mostly didn't know himself. He saw Kevo-Grod take a step
backwards. And then another.

The
joy of combat which to his surprise turned out to be completely
different from the joy of murder, filled his heart. He actually began
to dream of victory. That he was going to be the first of his people
who wasn't lying about it to actually win this kind of a one on one
fight. Hell he had witnesses and everything even though one of them
only had one eye and wasn't paying enough attention to him.

Slash.
Slash. Whirl. Charge. Thrust.

He
was going to have to forgo executing them now but he could live with
that. Well maybe later after they got the word got out.

Slash. Whirl.
Charge. Thrust. Thrust.

Grod
had heard that story about the two swordsmen and knew it was
bullshit. Everyone had a rhythm to how they fight. Even the world's
worst swordsman.

On El Ruyined's next pass. Grod dropped down to one knee while
whipping his sword into around into a flat overhead guard. Then
hooked his dagger behind the Swamp Elf's knee as stepped forward to
thrust.

Slash.
Thrust.Hack, “FUCK!”

The
hamstrung Ruyined crashed face first into the polished marble
flooring, screaming and cursing Grod for having cheated in way that
he simply could not.

Grod's
sword crushed it's way through his back ribs and into the Swamp Elf
Prince's heart.

His
prince's death cry was enough to fatally distract the already wounded
second Swamp Elf. Duke Bryan closed in on him and wrenched his sword
arm into a straight lock. Using his greater weight and muscle mass
he pulled the his would be assassin down to the ground and torqued
the shoulder joint in the wrong direction with a muffled crunch.
Before he could even scream, Bryan landed the tomahawk into the back
of his neck.

Grod
and Bryan both looked over at the door when the screaming, half
blinded archer rather too abruptly stopped doing that. He had gone
from clutching his eye to clutching his throat. He collapsed against
the doorway and bonelessly slid down it's frame. Revealing behind
him a proufoundly unattractive young man and his too hot for him
girlfriend.

Grod
looked at him and said, “I though you said you were a magician.
You had to use a knife for that.”

Saluriman
shrugged which always made him shudder a bit in this body because of
the hoop expanders in “his” ears. “A dagger is better for this
kind of work.”

Grod
shrugged himself, “okay where's the...”

Before
Grod could ask, his question was answered. A trim young girl with
strawberry blonde hair, flew into the room.

“Princess
Honor, it's a little...messy in here,” Grod tried to warn her off.
There was no reason a girl like that needed to something like this.
Time enough for that later in life but that kid was just starting
out.

She
ignored Banner Sergeant Grod completely as was her royal prerogative
and ran with her arms out stretched for Duke Bryan.

Honor
stopped cold, her eyes going wide as she took in the half-brother
shaped form gasping on the floor. “Oh god Bran, what did you do
now?”

Branadoc
roused himself. Gathering every ounce of strength he had left in his
dying body and managed to moan, “it's...all...his...fault.”